Posted in Explaining the Strange Behavior

…as a doornail


When I die (I am not planning on dying anytime soon, I’m just saying) I don’t care about funeral arrangements*.  If my people need to have a funeral for closure, so be it.  Me?  I’d rather they take the money they would spend and go on vacation–do something nice for themselves.  I’ll be dead.  Why on earth would I want my family to spend upwards of $20k (and probably far upwards of that by the time I get around to croaking) on my corpse? 

Just cremate me–because you have to do something with the body, and I’m creeped out by the idea of being given to science–do what you will with my ashes, and go do something fun.  Remind each other of how much I loved you, and get a suntan–something I’ve never been able to do!  My legacy will live on in the people I have loved, and they’ll be taking a little piece of me wherever they go.  I hope they go somewhere with good food.

There are days when I miss my grandparents with the same intensity of the first few weeks they were gone.  I don’t think a day goes by without me thinking of them at least once, and usually because I am thinking, “Oh Grandma/Boom/Granny/Grandaddy would have loved that!”  Or because I can hear one of their voices in my head, advising, or needling, or encouraging me.

I think that is the sweetest aspect of memory–having known someone so well that you can “remember” what they would have said in any given situation.  Maybe you don’t know the exact words, but you know the spirit of where their thoughts would land.  I know just what my grandparents faces would have looked like if they were seeing Thor.  I can easily imagine what about him would have delighted them.  And, in some small way because I can do that, I can share them with him. 

It occurs to me that one day I will be a wizened old crone.  In absence of any looks worth vanity, I wonder what I’ll wind up preening?  When I am too old to bother with makeup outside of a little lipstick, and too arthritic to fool with my hair, who will I be?  I hope I’ll still be me, finding joy in the youth and decoration of others.

*If my people must have a funeral, I’d like it arranged so that during the visitation, my eyes are open.  Pop in some glass eyes if necessary.  If people are going to come stare at me, I ought to be able to look back at them.  A trip wire that triggers calliope music whenever anyone gets too close would also be appreciated.

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Author:

Happy. That about covers it.

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